


therein lies the madness

by sapphicist



Series: anarchy is the way of beasts [1]
Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Introspection, Not Beta Read, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27904420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicist/pseuds/sapphicist
Summary: “Theseus stands alone in hollow gloom, with the sound of his own breath whispering down unseen passages ahead and behind and to both sides, wondering how he stumbled into this blackest of all labyrinths.He entered by choice. We all do. Whether we are mapping the heavens or skulking the lanes of the underworld, whether we are hunting the imprisoned fiend or have ourselves become the monster, whether we are searching for what is lost or hiding what must never be found, we all round that first corner by choice - and by then, we are lost.You too. You must decide what is false and what is true, and what is true for me but not for you. We are wandering the mazes, all of us, and we cannot hope to escape until we learn to tell between what is real and what is real for someone else. There lies the madness, and the truth as well.”― Troy Denning, Pages of Pain-Tommy survives, and life continues. Sometimes, he wishes it wouldn't.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, No Romantic Relationship(s), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: anarchy is the way of beasts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043457
Comments: 31
Kudos: 177





	therein lies the madness

**Author's Note:**

> ,,,,yeah

_“Theseus stands alone in hollow gloom, with the sound of his own breath whispering down unseen passages ahead and behind and to both sides, wondering how he stumbled into this blackest of all labyrinths._

_He entered by choice. We all do. Whether we are mapping the heavens or skulking the lanes of the underworld, whether we are hunting the imprisoned fiend or have ourselves become the monster, whether we are searching for what is lost or hiding what must never be found, we all round that first corner by choice - and by then, we are lost._

_You too. You must decide what is false and what is true, and what is true for me but not for you. We are wandering the mazes, all of us, and we cannot hope to escape until we learn to tell between what is real and what is real for someone else. There lies the madness, and the truth as well.”_

― Troy Denning, Pages of Pain

* * *

Here we stand, at the edge of the universe. Here we stand, and beyond, what comes next? A void, or emptiness; something in between, you suppose. You don't know, but you reckon you'll learn. It's a whole new frontier, after all, and you've got all the time in the world to explore it.

With you, there's a tyrant, and a ghost, and thoughts of someone who you thought you knew. Irony: there's comfort to be found in the presence of the tyrant - at the very least, you know how to feel about him and his ways. Your hatred for him is bone-deep, after all.

"Your new home," he says with a smile, and you want to scream. You don't, and he leaves. 

Coward.

You're alone, now, except for the ghost of a man you once knew like the back of your own hand. Here you both stand, at the edge of the universe. Here you stand, and you don't know what to do now that you are alone. You've never been alone before. You'll learn, and you don't want to, and you don't have a choice.

The world shifts. You walk toward the woods and decide you will survive. The ghost smiles, and walks with you. He chatters mindlessly, and you are reminded of golden tinted days he does not remember. You want to cry, and instead, you punch a tree.

Easy goes, you think. Easy goes.

You go through the motions. Punch the tree, make the tools, mine. They come easily, these things you have not done for years; muscle memory. It feels low. It feels dirty, to be doing these things after so long. You don't say a word, and the ghost laughs.

"Lads on tour," he giggles hysterically, "what a wonderful name, don't you think?"

"Yeah," you choke out, "yeah, s'great."

The sun sets. The ghost smiles at you and wanders off, and you lay on the floor of your dirt hut. You're alone, now. 

For the first time in a long time, you cry. The tears taste like weakness and pity on your tongue. Look at you, they taunt, look at what you've done. Look at what you've accomplished. 

Hours later, the ghost comes back, and you do not turn to face him. Neither of you speak, despite the fact that you know he can see the shaking of your shoulders. You don't know if you are glad for it.

It's late. "Why do the discs matter so much?" he asks you.

You open your mouth to answer, and nothing comes out. You realize, belatedly, that you don't have one for him. Something sick twists in your stomach, and you pretend you never heard him.

They matter, you tell yourself. They matter. They have to matter, because if they don't, what's the point?

What's the point?

You fall asleep. It's restless.

The sun rises. You rise with it, and you leave the hut. You go through the motions. The ghost rambles. It feels like routine, and you hate it.

The ghost says you should build a house. You snap at him that you are not staying here, and pretend you do not see the way he wilts. Guilt gnaws in your stomach, and hours later, you accept his gift of blue with no complaint. It feels like an apology, and you want to cry again. 

"No one would laugh at you," he says, serious for the first time in a long time. "You did good."

He sounds, in that moment, like the man he once was, and there is a split moment where you are filled with aching grief for him. Then he smiles, oblivious as ever, and the world continues to move. He is not that man anymore, you know. Most of the time you can accept that. It's starting to get harder.

You're in the mines, now, and you hear footsteps. You turn around, and your brother stands there, pity and cruel amusement in his eyes. The world shifts, and you scream at him for a long time. He does not stop smiling. You wish he would stop smiling. 

The ghost beams when he sees your brother. He tells you he does not have any bad memories of him. You want to shake him by the coat lapels, and only abstain because you know your hands would go right through him. 

Your brother sits with you, hours later, right before he leaves. "If you want those discs back, perhaps you've been working with the wrong people," he says, nonchalant. 

He disappears, afterward, and the words sit in your mind, and they refuse to leave. It feels like something is festering inside of you. You don't know what, and it scares you. 

The ghost offers you blue, and you take it. You begin to reply when he speaks to you, because anything is better than the silence of your own mind. 

Your brother's words haunt you. You pretend they don't, and continue surviving. 

Three messages appear from people you used to know. The first asks you if you are okay. You type, _I don't know._ You stare at the message for an hour, your hand hovering over the send button. You delete it, and reply, _cant talk rn._

The second is an apology. You respond with a simple thank you, and try not let it get to you when he does not reply after that.

Third, a message of support. You say another thank you. You get a reply, but you do not read it. 

This place is not home. You do not want it to be home, and yet you do, in a way. The ghost gives you more blue, and you accept it into your ever-growing stack. There is too much for one human being, but you do not care. 

Your brother comes back again, and laughs at you some more. You try to muster up the energy to be angry at him, and find nothing but emptiness inside of you. He stops laughing after a while, and instead starts to just watch you. You don't acknowledge him anymore. He leaves without saying a word. Something pangs inside of you. 

The days pass. Routine forms, and you hate it. This is not home, but the ghost tells you it could be. It could be. 

You don't reply. You're talking less and less these days. You should be worried, but you're not. You try and muster up some tears to cry, and you can't. You wonder when you started to feel so numb. You wonder when the anger disappeared. 

The anger was better than this emptiness. You don't know if you miss it or not. You continue on surviving. 

One day you wake up, and there stands your father. 

"Tommy," he says, and you want to cry but you can't. You walk past him with hardly a glance and do not look back.

He sits in silence for a bit. Sometimes he tries to talk to you. You don't reply, and he gives up quickly. There's something in the lines of his face, and you resolve to stop looking at him at all.

The ghost gives you more blue, and you accept it in what has already become second nature. Your father watches the exchange closely.

"Thank you," you find yourself saying to the ghost of the man who hurt you irreparably. 

"You're welcome," says the ghost, and you continue surviving. 

Your father leaves. You don't say a word. It does not hurt. 

Days pass. You've been here for weeks now. Your brother's words live in your mind, and the ghost's blue lives in your hands. You haven't spoken for a few days now, but that's okay. The ghost speaks enough for the two of you.

You are not happy, but you continue surviving. That's enough, you tell yourself. That's enough.

Your brother comes back. Your father is with him. 

The sigh of them, somehow, exhausts you, and you sit on the step in front of the dirt hut. After a moment, your brother settles beside you, regal and poised as ever.

"Have you thought about what I said?" He asks. You shrug, and he snorts. "Liar."

You stand up. You need to go chop wood. You are not running, you tell yourself.

Your father watches you the entire time, and you pretend you do not feel his eyes burning into your back. 

Life continues. You survive. The ghost gives you more blue, and you do not think about the fact that your fingers stained with it. 

And then, one day, the tyrant comes back. He looks at the dirt hut, at the mine, at the campsite, and smiles. "You're doing well," he praises. Then he pauses. "Well - better than I thought you'd do, y'know?"

The ghost beams and thanks him. You do not reply, and the tyrant frowns. He steps forward, and you take a step back. He stops, and he looks at your blue-stained hands, and the frown deepens. "Tommy?"

You stare at each other for a long time. Then, without a word, you turn and begin to walk toward the mine. You do not see the way the tyrant seems to be frozen in place. You do not see the clenching of his fist. You do not see anything, because you do not look at him, and you continue to survive.

"Don't mind him," the ghost says cheerfully. "He's just a bit down!"

The tyrant is quiet for a moment. He finally speaks, and he sounds off-put. Unnerved. "What's...what's wrong with him?" 

The ghost does not reply for a long time. When he does reply, he is uncharacteristically somber. "I think," he says, "that he's sad." 

"Sad?"

"Mm." The ghost smiles. "Tommy's always sad, these days. I've given him lots of blue, but I don't know if it's helping. He keeps taking it, though."

The tyrant does not reply, and when you finally return, he is nowhere to be found. The ghost says he left after you went into the mine, and you do not question it. There is no reason for him to lie to you. Not anymore, at least.

Time passes. You exist, and the ghost asks you when you both are going home. You don't know how to reply, so you don't. 

Here you stand, at the edge of the universe. Here you stand, and you look into the empty nothingness beyond, and it feels a bit like looking into yourself. Life continues, but you feel stagnant. The anger has been gone for a long time now. It's left an empty space behind that you do not know how to fill.

(You've begun to ask for the blue before the ghost can offer.)

Your hands are permanently stained, now. No matter how vigorously you wash them in the river, the color does not leech away. You think it might be creeping upward. You don't know whether to be scared or not, and find you do not have the energy to care.

Your brother's words sit in the back of your mind.

You find yourself typing a new message.

Three days later, your brother returns with your father. Your brother looks proud. Your father just looks sad, but that's not much of a change.

They help you pack your things. Behind you, the ghost of the man who ripped you to shreds watches you, and does not smile. 

Here you stand, at the edge of the universe. Here you stand, ashes behind you and nothing in front of you.

The void is calling to you, Theseus. Why not take the leap?

**Author's Note:**

> WOOPS I PUMPED THIWS OUT OVER THE COURSE OF HALF AN HOUR
> 
> comments keep the muses happy. pls.


End file.
